


Solipsis

by 852_Prospect_Archivist



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Episode Related, M/M, Other: See Story Notes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-10
Updated: 2013-05-10
Packaged: 2017-12-11 07:10:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/795285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/852_Prospect_Archivist/pseuds/852_Prospect_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Who we are is defined by more than our selves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Solipsis

## Solipsis

by Spyke

Author's website:  <http://www.geocities.com/spyke_raven>

Not mine, Pet Fly's. 

A huge thank you to Becky's Episode transcripts from where I lifted some quotes.   
Warnings: Present tense. J/B and J/f. Prequel to 'Cocoon'.   
I have reasons for all this. Trust me. Please?   
*grin* Or not.   
I do have post story notes that explain in greater detail. 

3rd Season, Warriors? It will seriously help if you remember the ep.

* * *

"Tell me a story." 

"Hmm?" 

"Mm..." She teases, reaching out to tickle him. Spider fingers scuttling over his skin. 

He laughs, shivering. "No, don't." 

She stops, but her fingers wiggle menacingly where he can see them. "Come on, tell me. Tell me a story." 

"Hmm." His eyebrows lift, lazy still, but wary. " ... what kind of story?" 

"Tell me something about you." 

"About me?" 

"Yes. Tell me something I don't know." 

... and he sees the urgency she's shuttering behind laughing eyes, the way her body poises over his, restrained tension and fluttering hands that sculpt and scope his flesh but long for his soul. He hears her turn her need into a joke, try to keep this light and fun. But it isn't, not when he can hear what she's really asking for. 

(Tell me something you don't want me to know.) 

He wants to shake his head and sigh. 

Sometimes it seems she's missing the point. In actuality, he knows who is. Because this is sacred space, these headwaters they create together, her body flowing into his, his mouth on hers. Sometimes he's ashamed that his thoughts are of poetry and the rhythm of music, inspired by her skin on his, her voice crying softly, sometimes his name. 

He tries hard for silence, but sometimes he slips. And when he does the darkness is usually forgiving, letting him hide, but tonight she doesn't let him, though he holds himself quietly immobile, mattress scraping against his back with her body on his. Though he holds and doesn't move, she slip-slides her legs over his, entangling him. Finding the opportunity. Moving, pushing. Insinuating herself. Silently asking. 

(tell me things I'll never know about you.) 

He has the words and the thoughts, but he'll never tell them. At least, not the secrets she thinks she wants to hear. 

He can't tell her. So for a distraction he says, 

"I smoked weed in high school," and waits for her to laugh. It's a minute before she does but his nervousness evaporates as she throws her arms around him, cuddling warmth again. 

"That's it?" 

"No, there's more." 

"Sounds like a good story," she says into his chest. 

"Oh it is, it is." And he's safe for tonight, with other words to hide behind. "Ouch!" 

She licks his nipple in apology. "Tell me," muffled again and he groans softly as her hands creep up, gently caressing all the way to his shoulders. "Tell me," and she lies passive against him, mouth seeking but not closing on the damp patch of skin. 

Her breath gusts gently, arousing and subduing him all at once. The moonlight is in his head suddenly and when he says the words, it's with grinning confidence 

"Once upon a time-" 

before he hears himself and has to say them again, softer, echoing silently, different in his head. 

(Once upon a time) 

She shifts herself, listening. Her hand closes on his and he lets it lie there while searching for words. 

Once upon a time. 

One day the outer stories won't be enough, but for now there is once upon a time. 

\-- 

There was sacred space, but this isn't any longer, not in this room that stinks of death and human fear. It gets under his skin, his all too human, fragile skin, not sensing anything but the need to grieve. And when he realizes this, the world turns red and he finds himself yelling to make them understand. But Blair brings him back, this man whose hand presses hard against his chest, eyes sparking irritation, though Jim knows he understands. 

Jim understands too. Blair doesn't take shit. No time for shit. Not from Jim. Not even from. 

Especially not now. 

They may be racing for time, but the tightness in Jim's chest eases slightly with the pressure against his lungs. It's familiar again; he's been here. Inhale, exhale, watch the hand rise and fall. 

Calm waits to overpower him, but his blood is too strong. He holds it off, feels the rhythm and compression of his lungs, a welcome distraction from the strangers and the noise and the too-recent smell of death. But as soon as he acknowledges it, they're gone again, so fast he realizes he was just... 

(over-reacting) 

(remembering) 

(hoping) 

And fell in too deep. 

Blair brings him back again. 

"Come on," he says, pushing Jim out, towards the stairs. And Jim follows though he doesn't want to, with only one glance backward at the sheeted figure. 

Mummified, he imagines it, Incacha dry and dusty because otherwise he can see wet flesh on fecund earth and the maggots - 

**_FUCK_**

"Stay with me Jim," rough words and Blair's arm around his shoulders as he staggers, keeping him steady. 

Jim throws him off. "I can -walk -" 

"Fuck you too." And Blair darts back down for a minute, Jim only realizing when he returns with a headset, that sometime between death and forensics, Blair has washed the residual blood off his hands. Jim wonders if Blair feels clean. 

He doesn't ask, gut still churning with recent memory. 

"Come on then," Blair says like its Jim's fault they aren't moving. Jim doesn't reply, just follows, silent. He still doesn't know where they were going but he's happy not to think. Its just that the first time a man died this close to him he was twenty three and the blood splashed over his face and dropped wet, soft on his neck but he hadn't thrown up, mesmerized by the red. 

Part of his mouth had been salty though his hands had remained mostly clean until he reached up and wiped his face. The blood had spurted... up...everywhere... and when it congealed it stuck to his skin, it adhered to part of the open necked collar he wore, stupid for jungle wear, but then the entire mission had been stupid. 

Jim has never told anyone this story and he makes himself forget, pushing it to the back of his mind where it hovers, humming uneasily like the mosquitoes and flies that had buzzed incessantly around his face and neck and arms, sipping on the dried bits and blood and trying to bite through. 

He trips on the stairs but at the last instant manages not to fall. Blair's ahead of him and doesn't notice. 

"Here," and they're on the roof where it's warm and the sun hits him, killing the insects for a while. Blair tosses him a pair of headphones and bullies him into listening to the sound of drums. 

"What the fuck is this?" 

" _Put_ it back _ON_." 

Anger is safe and easy to fall into. Jim risks another look into burning eyes before closing his own. 

"Now relax." 

He tries. But he doesn't want to. The music is awkward and unsettling, nothing like the rhythm used to be, of the drum at night with the smoky fires and occasional flash of teeth sending Jim into a dreamy happy trance. This is 

"Shit," Jim mutters, snarling and reaching to turn the volume down. Blair's voice cuts through his distaste. 

" _Work_ with me here, okay?" Strained and - strained. Nameless, stretched emotion and Jim takes the headphones off to look at his friend, to really look at the dark circles under his eyes and the sweat marks on the shirt - 

  * and he puts the headphones on again, trying too hard not to look. But the music is all _wrong_. 



It should be thrumming and peaceful, grounding and calming. A dark erotic beat of life and knowledge, of being able to live. This, this _garbage_ is harsh and he can feel his breath like dissonance, like feet running, slipping on moss and rotting leaves, like the heat and his heart and the incessant whine of crickets and the way humidity settles like a blanket, scratching through cloth. It's the silence of the desperate, full of crackling vegetation and snapping wood that sounds loud as gunshots as he runs to hide. But he's in the jungle again, a place he never wanted to be and he can feel the ache in his ribs and the pounding that's building up like an urge to punch out - 

**"JIM"**

  * and he jolts up, slipping through Blair's palms, half-lunging until he remembers 



**" _JIM_ "**

stops 

" _Calm down_." 

...calms down. Breathes in. 

Jim sits down. Exhaling. 

Calm but grounded. Here. In _reality_. 

"Shit." Blair blows out explosively. "What happened to you?" 

Jim looks up, the earphones dangling from his hand. Keeps his voice steady. "This is not working." 

And watches as Blair understands. 

"You -" Blair's mouth works, words forming stupidly but not releasing. Jim watches as his friend turns around, turns back, raises a finger, drops his hand and then his head. Looks up again, angry then lunges, grabbing the headset. 

"You -" 

Jim watches, calmly. So calm now he's cold again, in the breeze that carries monoxide and burnt carbon from fuel cells, not wood - except he can't smell them, he can't and he's not going to be able to. 

"I can't," he tells Blair reasonably, ignoring the beat in his veins and pulse that tell different stories. "This isn't working." 

Blair sees this, running a hand through his hair in distraction. Stops, brings the palm to his mouth for a moment, like he's sniffing. Unconscious but how could it be when he knows Jim's watching. 

And Jim remembers blood. He looks away. 

Silence before Blair speaks. 

"It's up to you." 

"I can't do it." He hears himself from a distance, already impervious to his own anger. Watching the words hit like stones on water. (doesn't water erase stone?) 

(slowly, yes it does) 

Some part of him knows he's hurting. 

And Blair turns towards the skyline like he can hear. Like it hurts to hear what Jim's not saying out loud. 

But when he turns back his words are pitiless. 

"You've _got_ to do this, man. I can help, but it's up to you." 

Taking the choice from Jim even as he says, 'You've got to do this. Its up to you.' 

"At least give it another try." 

\-- 

Deep again, like floating in water. When he resurfaces its like breathing warm liquid air and there's part of him that never remembers who he is or what he's doing here. 

She likes to watch him the way he likes to watch her, and it scares him at times. The times he comes out of orgasms so deep he must be drugged, and sees her hungry and open against him, mouth framing inarticulate noises, his name, love words, sometimes a silent intensity that's more powerful than these. He feels her hands capturing his, her frame restraining his and he knows, she knows that he's too strong for her and if he didn't want this she couldn't take it from him. 

It scares him that she wants him vulnerable. It scares him that he wants it too. He can't allow it. 

It scares him worse than the questions he can't answer for her. 

He doesn't answer anyway. Oh, the small ones are easy. 

"Who were you thinking of?" her eyes cat-slit and eager, watching him with himself. And he laughs and says "Demi Moore," so she can launch herself at him and inhale his voice when it trembles. 

"You." 

And that's the truth. His wife. He loves her. He'll protect her with his life. 

Even from himself. 

"You." 

He knows he'd die for her. 

But the other giving. This. 

"Jimmy. _Jim_. Wake up, Jim, it's only me." 

Her voice pleading. Her hand on his shoulder and he throws it off, rolling out of bed, downstairs and into the bathroom where he splashes his face and breathes in several times before going back up. Where she's waiting for him. 

"Jim?" 

"Nightmare." 

And she pauses. "I can tell." 

When he gets into bed she reaches out but he turns. 

"Sorry I woke you." 

She rubs his back tentatively. "It's okay." 

After a while her touch stills. He relaxes. Turns to her, but her eyes are closed. Even then he gathers her into his arms, ignoring the prickling of his skin that does not want to be touched. 

"Mm..." she looks at him. "Okay?" 

He rubs her back. "Yeah." 

Her smile is sad, like she knows what he won't say. But she leaves him anyway. Not then, but soon. 

_Because he left first_. It's not something he wants to remember. 

"Jim? Earth to Jim." 

He smiles, her face close to his. Kisses her cheek. "Go to sleep." 

"You're sure you're okay?" 

"Stop talking and let me sleep." 

"Grouch." But she shuts up, nestling into his arms. He strokes her back then, remembering now that they were younger and in love. 

She left him anyway. 

\-- 

"Jim?" 

He looks up, lost. Sees Blair, an image resolving into definition. Remembers. 

Shakes his head. 

"I _can't_." 

Blair shakes his head too, in time. "Jim. Jim, _please_. You need to go back there." 

"I CAN'T, alright, what part of CAN'T don't you fucking UNDERSTAND, Sandburg?!" 

"My friend is DEAD you shit!" 

"So is MINE!" 

He pauses, hands vibrating with the need to reach up and strike. Swallows instead. Swallows again. Clenches his fists. 

"So. Is mine." 

Soft increased thrumming that he can tell is his own heart. Rapid whoosh! of breath uncontrolled and uneasy. His and Blair's. He realizes he's never heard Blair breathe erratically before, even when panting and running after him there was a rhythm to his life. 

That's when he gets it. Blair's afraid. 

"Jim." 

Without speaking Jim sits down and puts the headphones back on his head. 

Blair pushes them off. 

"Jim. What's happening to you?" 

"Fuck off, Sandburg." Jim puts them back on. Doesn't look at his friend who mutters, "You're such an asshole," before gently taking them off again. 

Jim captures Blair's hands on either side of his head. Holds him there, looking into his eyes. 

"Make up your mind." 

Blair's expression hardens. "Fine." Breathes and repeats. " _Fine_." 

Jim waits, but there's nothing else forthcoming. And hates himself for being such a stupid dick. But when he releases his hands Blair slips the headphones off and steps back quickly. Not to worry. Jim's not making any moves towards him. 

"Mind telling me what's going on?" 

"Yes. As a matter of fact I do." 

"Shit." 

Jim agrees. 

"Jim, look, I know this is rough on you," 

"Shut up Sandburg." Jim's voice is mild. Almost affectionate. "You might as well shut up, alright? You know nothing about me." 

\-- 

She's drying the dishes and he's stacking them. Listening to her talk about her day. 

He answers with absent 'hmm's until he realizes she's stopped speaking. When he holds a hand back for the last plate she gives it to him silently. 

He puts it away. 

"I got a call at the station," she says. 

"Oh?" 

"From your father." 

His back stiffens. "No." 

"Jim... I think we should invite him over for -" 

"I said. No." Keeping his voice soft. 

He can hear her inhale, feel her tense behind him. Wants her desperately to keep quiet. 

"He's your father, Jim." 

"And I'm saying no." 

"I'd like to get to meet him." 

"This topic is not open for discussion." 

"You're being unreasonable." 

"I'm being very reasonable." 

"-" 

"Carolyn. The subject is closed." 

He takes a beer from the fridge and pops it open, moving to the living room without offering her one. He knows he's being an asshole. He can feel her trying not to reciprocate. 

"Jim," and he wonders what an effort it must be to keep her voice down. "Won't you at least tell me why?" 

_No._

"Until yesterday I thought you were an orphan." 

He shrugs. "There's a lot you don't know about me." 

And there's a peculiar stillness to her voice when she says, "Yeah. I guess there is." 

That night he has the dream again, the one where the voices keep calling his name and he can't go to them and has to hear them get louder, finally screaming. He wakes tangled in sheets, Carolyn hovering half fiercely over him, tears streaming down her face. 

"... Jim... God, Jim..." 

He clenches his fists and wonders if he can dash for the bathroom, but no, he has to touch her, soothe her first. He can't stand to see her cry. 

"... tell me, why won't you _tell_ me Jim." 

"Ssh," he says, stroking the tears away, pressing a thumb-kiss to her cheek. "You look really bad when you cry." She half-laughs into him. 

Whispers, "For Christ's sake Jim, what did the bastard do to you?" 

He stills. Pushes her out of his arms and steps out of the bed, implacably cold. 

"Jim?" 

"Go to sleep." 

"Jim," 

" _Nothing_." 

She watches him look at her and he wonders what she sees. 

"My - father," the last word coming uneasily to him, "did nothing. This has nothing to do with him." 

He doesn't go back to bed that night. Because after this dream comes the other one and he's told himself she should never see. 

\-- 

Blair rubs his hand over his mouth. "I. Know nothing about you." 

"You know shit," Jim agrees. 

Blair smiles and it's not pretty. "Incacha wouldn't agree with you." 

Jim half-rises. "Keep him out of this!" 

"He got me INTO this!" Blair pressing in so close his hair's in Jim's face, hands grabbing Jim's shoulders, violently shaking. "Okay? _OKAY?!_ Your _shaman_ got me _into_ this." 

"Get your hands off me." 

"Fine." Blair moves away so suddenly, Jim almost overbalances. Plops into the chair and watches Blair thread the headset uselessly through his fingers. 

The words, when they finally come, are tired and so soft Jim can barely hear them. 

"... don't tell me I don't know shit, okay? All I know is what you choose to tell me." 

\-- 

He looks down at the woman's body again, feeling Carolyn stiffen next to him. But it's the morgue attendant who finally asks, "You can identify her, then?" 

"Yeah," Jim says, letting his eyes take one last long look before turning away. "Yeah, I can." 

"Jim," Carolyn's hand on his shoulder, being shrugged off as the drawer slides shut, locking the woman's face away. Paper thrusting against the edge of his vision. "You'll have to - " the attendant starts. "I know." Jim cuts him off. 

Respectful silence as he looks at the forms, carefully ignorant of Carolyn vibrating with suppressed tension, waiting just a foot away. He pays no attention to her, concentrating on filling in the blanks. Some of them he has no clue how to answer. Except - or especially this one. 

Relation to the deceased? 

'Son', writes Jim, signing where he's supposed to, the document tearing slightly on the edge of his pen. And walking so quickly out into the daylight that the woman supposed to be his wife can't keep up with him and has to let him go. 

Away. Somewhere quiet. So the tears that can't and don't fall won't shame him in front of her. 

Acrid taste in his mouth and blood on his teeth as he bites on his lip, needing to cry. Remembering he can't. Wishing he could. 

And later when she finds him, neither of them know what to say. 

That's not the day she tells him, "You won't let yourself need me." But that day arrives soon enough. When he remembers it, he doesn't cry. It's been so long, he doesn't want to anymore. 

The problem with grief, he decided then, was that it gave you the right to behave like a real asshole. Both ways. 

"Jim, I do not appreciate..." 

_No._

"Why won't you let me..." 

_No._

"You needed me there!" 

No. That isn't the question, not even the answer she's afraid of. Jim hears the words she doesn't say with practiced ease. 

_Didn't you think I needed to be there with you?_

He sighs. He thinks he apologized. 

Whatever. He's tired of being told what to feel. 

\-- 

"All you ever tell me is what you want to tell me. Who're you protecting, huh Jim?" 

Not exactly an accusation, but there's the scent of blood where he's bitten down. Or maybe it's residue from Blair's skin or his own. 

Except this scent couldn't be Incacha. It didn't even begin to say what he was... Incacha smelled different, Jim remembers. Smoky, and like he was larger than he looked. Encompassing more than flesh but lighter than air. Walker between worlds. 

He'd laughed when Jim'd told him that. "Sentinels are not supposed to be poets." At least that's what Jim thought he'd said. So much he hadn't figured out because the language was all new to him. So much he didn't understand then... 

Like the subliminal taste of iron in his mouth that had made him snarl and snap back at Carolyn when she yelled at him for something stupid. Like the growing lost look in her eyes that he ignored just in case he'd been responsible. Which he had... kind of. Except she'd been... 

Alone. 

She should have told him. 

(Like he'd told her stuff?) 

(All I know is what you tell me) 

When she finally told him she was leaving he'd... he's forgotten what he did. He remembers throwing her stuff out of the medicine cabinet in an orgiastic frenzy and finding the home pregnancy kit. 

He remembers it still took him months to figure it out. And when he finally needed to talk to her, it was too late and she wouldn't. 

"The topic is off-discussion," she'd left on the answering machine and he'd accepted that. 

He just doesn't want to remember. 

"Who're you protecting anyway, huh?" 

Guess. 

"Your goddamn _tribe_ is what _needs_ you." 

\-- 

Yes. 

He knows. 

\-- 

Blair turns to him, dismissing the last few minutes like nothing ever happened. Maybe nothing did. Nothing important anyway. 

(The goddamn tribe needs you) 

"Jim, we have got one shot here at stopping the bloodshed. Now I can help you, but really it's up to you." 

And he's right and that makes Jim angry enough to say "How? What if I can't do it?" 

"... _make_ that choice, damn it." 

Jim does. 

It doesn't come easy. 

But. He does. 

Leaves himself open. Makes the choice. 

And with pitiless eloquence, the city speaks. 

\--  
"...get your coat. They say it may rain." 

Words. Sounds. 

"... Dad! It's a sunny day." 

People. Speaking. 

"... hear that?" 

"Hear what? Don' hear nothin'" 

Jim closes his eyes and listens. This time he has to hear. 

\-- 

"Shaman of the great city," Blair chortles, writing it into his notes. He's trying to celebrate quietly, Jim appreciates that even as he wants to kill Blair for his naivet. The apartment still smells of Incacha and there are other stimuli trying hard to get his attention. 

Jim blanks them by walking into Blair's room. Remembering too late that he's forgotten to knock. 

Blair looks up, startled. "Hey." Pushes notes off his bed. "Sit down." 

Jim shakes his head. "Are you alright?" 

"Er, yeah?" Blair's eyes narrow. "Are you?" 

Jim nods. "Yeah." Which is a lie, but it'll do for now. No need to tell Blair of the rise and fall of voices and hums that outline his tribe in electric blue. No need yet to tell Blair of the empathy and bond he's been signed up for. Not yet. 

Sentinel of the city. Shaman of the city. 

He's going to find out. _Everything_. All too soon. 

(and then he'll run) 

The myriad voices of the city hum in resonance, hitting him in the groin. He nearly doubles over with - pain? Lust? - but manages to keep steady. Trying not to listen. 

(or see or taste or touch or feel) 

Putting them all away. 

(your responsibility remains) 

(fuck you. I know) 

Blair's hand on his shoulder. Gripping hard. "You sure you're alright?" 

"Yeah." Jim doesn't shake him off just yet, waits for the touch to end naturally. 

It doesn't and Jim swallows. "Just... came to see if I could... borrow your computer." 

Blair's hand falls away. "Oh." He looks down. "Uh, sure, just let me type this... or you go ahead if it won't take more than half an hour." 

"It won't," Jim says, but thirty minutes later he's still staring at the blank email addressed to his ex-wife, with nothing to say. 

"Done?" Blair asks, coming out of his room balancing notes. Jim nods and shuts stuff down so he won't be busted. 

"You're absolutely positively sure you... wouldn't like some noodles, Jim?" Blair asks, not too subtly. Jim grins. 

"Sure. I mean, no, I'm fine." Yields his seat, ruffling his partner's hair on the way up, feeling the frisson run through his arm and into his heart. Withdraws the hand, trying hard not to wince. 

The city hums in some sort of irritation. Jim steps away, hands carefully not touching anything. Says, "I'm going up to bed." 

"Sleep well Jim." Blair sits down, shooting him a look over his shoulder. "Call me if you need me." 

That stops Jim. Makes him stand a while on the bottom stair looking at his - partner. Looking and seeing. Finally realizing, he just... might. 

(Sentinel or not, your responsibility is to be accountable for your actions and to learn from your mistakes just like any man) 

(... he'll run, he'll run, watch it, he'll run...) 

"Blair," he calls, stopping short as the man turns to him. 

"Yeah?" 

"Uh. There's... something you need to know." 

Blair looks at him. Jim flushes. 

"Nothing... just a story," he says, trying to correct whatever it was he just did. "It can wait," he offers. 

He sees Blair consider that and grabs at the reprieve. "Talk to you tomorrow." 

"Jim." 

He stops. Doesn't turn, feels the eyes on his back. 

"You could tell me tonight. If you wanted to," 

_No_

"...okay." 

But Blair's watching him. "Or you could tell me tomorrow." 

Jim exhales. "I could." Starts up the stairs. 

"Jim." 

"Now what?" 

"You realize you _are_ going to tell me. Whenever." 

Jim feels a smile start, though part of him feels sick. "Yes, I do." Jogs up the next few stairs, half-exhilarated, half-scared. 

"Hey Jim?" 

"WHAT?" and he turns around, irritated to see his partner aim a huge shit-eating grin at him. 

"Jim. Just. You should know." 

"What?" 

"I do. Too." 

Jim looks at him sharply, but Blair shows no signs of running. 

"You do." 

"I do." 

"You do." 

"Too." 

Jim smiles. "Just checking." 

And it still sounds like a vow. 

~ End. 

* * *

A huge thank you to Becky of the episode transcripts page, without whose effort this story wouldn't have been possible.  
This story's definitely a prequel to Cocoon, <http://www.geocities.com/spyke_raven/cocoon.html> though I like to think it can stand alone. But go on, enhance the experience, why don't you. 'Cocoon' will help, I promise.

Two things. 1. The story's about what I imagine prevented Jim from getting to the world of his 'animal spirit' right at the beginning. Every time he goes within his psyche, he hits buried memories. 2. Why those memories? Because I can see Jim with Blair precisely because of what he learned from his marriage to Carolyn. Hence the (hopefully) relevant contrasts. The psyche's a complex, layered thing. I'm certain there were other things. 

Talk to me anyway? 

* * *

End Solipsis by Spyke: spyke_raven@yahoo.com

Author and story notes above.

  
Disclaimer: _The Sentinel_ is owned etc. by Pet Fly, Inc. These pages and the stories on them are not meant to infringe on, nor are they endorsed by, Pet Fly, Inc. and Paramount. 


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